The Trojan Sea

by Richard Herman

  “Nice boat,” he said.

  “Real nice,” she allowed. Now, there’s a hangdog look. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.” She went back to cleaning up. Men! She decided to charge the boat’s owner double for the job. He could afford it. Then she relented. Don’t take it out on some poor sap just because he never sails his boat and you’re frustrated. “What brings you here?”

  “I took a day off. I had to go to the doctor this morning and, and—” He stared dumbly at his feet.

  Her voice was soft. “And what? Mike.”

  He sat down next to the wheel and looked out across the Severn River. “I was mugged Tuesday night.” He told her the story in a flat monotone.

  “Did the police catch them?”

  He shook his head. “I spent most of yesterday looking at mug shots. Nothing.”

  Jane became all business. “Let me see the bandage.” He turned his back to her and lifted his shirt. She gently touched his skin. “How many stitches?”

  “Eight.”

  “Not good.”

  “Tell me,” he moaned.

  “I was cut in a bar fight once,” she confided.

  He spun around to look at her. “Really?”

  She nodded. “I was young and stupid. A bar in San Diego. A bimbo thought I was hitting on her boyfriend—we were talking boats. Later she went after me in the ladies’ room. I should have run away. But no, I was a lamebrained idiot and stood my ground. She cut my face with a broken beer bottle. Over two hundred stitches, two layers.” She tilted her head so he could examine her left cheek.

  The scar was almost invisible. He gently touched her cheek and traced the line. “I never noticed it before.”

  “I had a good plastic surgeon.” She thought for a moment. “I’m surprised they waited until today to sew you up. They didn’t waste any time stitching me back together.”

  “It was the same with me.”

  “But you said you went to the doctor today.”

  Stuart didn’t answer at first. “I had to see a shrink. There were, ah, complications. Damn! First I get shoved under a street sweeper and now this. Ramjet is dumping on me big time, and Jenny is on my case. Who in the hell did I piss off?” He fell silent, not wanting to sound like a whimpering idiot. But the doubts were there, raging through him.

  She recognized the symptoms and took charge. “Bad luck does happen,” she told him. “You need some time. How ’bout some lunch? There’s a great little place on West Street. Best hamburgers and beer in town.”

  “Sounds good. Hold on, I got to check my messages. Ramjet is probably having fits.” He punched a number into his cell phone and listened for what seemed a long time. His face paled, and he broke the connection. “That was the police. They think they found the bastard who mugged me. They want to see me ASAP.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “Apparently not. He’s dead.”

  Another thought came to her. “What about your boss?”

  “He’s only having conniptions today. Fits are reserved for tomorrow.” For the first time that day Stuart’s back straightened. “Fuck him.”

  Jane allowed a little smile. “Let’s go,” she said.

  The tension kept building, wrapping Stuart into a tight knot, as they made the drive back to Washington. “I’ve never seen a dead body,” he said.

  “Always a first time,” she said, back in her four-word mode.

  “Thanks for coming.” His hand reached out and held hers. They drove in silence to the police station, where they checked in with the desk sergeant. He sent them immediately to Homicide, where a young detective was waiting for them. He handed Stuart two Polaroid photos. “Recognize him?” Stuart shook his head. The detective handed him one more. “This one?” Two very dead eyes gaped at Stuart from the photo. For a moment he was back on the street, staring into the face of his assailant.

  “That’s him.”

  The detective handed him another photo, this one of a right hand. “Check the teeth marks. Someone took a good bite out of him.”

  “That was me,” Stuart said. He held his breath, waiting for the next act to play out.

  “Thank you Colonel Stuart. We’ll be in contact when we have a positive ID.”

  The tension shattered. “I don’t have to identify the body?”

  The detective shook his head and stood to escort them out. But Jane wanted to know more. “How was he killed?”

  The detective shrugged. “A stupid thing. He tried to rob a woman at an automatic teller machine, held a knife to her throat, probably the same one he used on Colonel Stuart. She broke free and fell to the ground, rolled up in a fetal position, and screamed like hell. An armed security guard heard her and got there in time to stop the perp. Three nine-millimeter slugs, nice grouping, saved the taxpayers a lot of money.”

  “So the woman wasn’t hurt?” Stuart asked.

  The detective shook his head. “A minor cut across her throat. She was lucky.”

  Stuart stared at the floor. “Do you run a lot of tests on the body? Like blood tests.”

  “Oh, yeah. Everything.”

  Stuart whispered, “HIV?”

  “That, too.”

  “Will you let me know the results?”

  “Certainly,” the detective said, making a note on his calendar.

  Jane stared at Stuart, at last understanding.

  Jane took a quick look around Stuart’s apartment, pleased that it was spotlessly clean and neat as a pin. Just like Temptress, she thought. “I like your place,” she announced. “Bathroom?”

  “Down the hall, at the end,” Stuart said, rummaging through the refrigerator.

  She walked down the short hall, glancing at the small bedroom on the left that obviously belonged to Eric. A framed photo of an extremely pretty woman with long auburn hair sat on the chest of drawers. That must be Jenny, Jane thought. She paused at the door to the larger bedroom and looked at Stuart’s bed. She had no delusions about herself and accepted the fact that, lookswise, she was no match for the beautiful Jenny. Her spirits soared when she saw the picture on the nightstand. It was a photo of her standing beside the wheel of Temptress, looking up, studying the set of the sails. When did he take that? She almost floated back to the kitchen. Don’t get stupid, she warned herself.

  “Are omelettes okay?” Stuart asked.

  “Sounds good,” she replied, thinking not of food but of his bed. Then it all crashed, and she felt like crying. Suddenly she didn’t care. Sex might be out of the question for now, but she was going to spend the night with him. Being Jane, she took the direct approach. “Mike, I want to stay here tonight.”

  She almost laughed at the panicked look on his face. “Jane, you know what I was asking about at the police station. I, ah, I, ah…”

  She let him off the hook. “That’s why you went to the shrink, right?” He nodded, not yet able to talk about it.

  Dallas

  The jogger put on a burst of speed, pounding along the river walk next to Turtle Creek Boulevard. His breath steamed in the unusually chilly morning air as he passed other runners. The exercise helped control the worry that consumed him like a cancer. How could anything get so fucked up so quickly? he moaned to himself. He coasted to a walk when he reached the roundabout leading up to his high-rise condominium. The doorman held the door for him. “Good morning, sir. Nice day for a run?”

  “Good morning, Ed. Indeed it is.” He rode the elevator alone to the top floor, his anxiety building. He had to tell Marsten, the sooner the better. He let himself into his luxury apartment, wondering how much longer he could afford it.

  Sophia James was standing by the big window overlooking Turtle Creek. “A beautiful view,” she told him.

  Why didn’t Ed tell me she was here?

  “I let myself in,” she said.

  How did she get to the elevator? The complex prided itself on its security and hadn’t had a break-in in years.
>
  “I came in with a delivery man,” she told him, answering his unasked question. “We need to talk. What went wrong in Washington?”

  “I hired a fucking incompetent,” the jogger muttered. “He screwed it up big time. Stuart got away, and I had to do something. Marsten isn’t paying the big bucks for nothin’. Anyway, I figure that was the only shot we had at Stuart. We go after him again and someone gets wise. I decided to break the connection somewhere else. So I went after the woman.”

  “What woman? You didn’t tell me about her.”

  The jogger flopped down on the couch beside her. “She’s Steiner’s contact in DOE. I figured no one would make the connection between her and Stuart, since she’s not on his committee. I set it up to look like a mugging gone bad at an ATM. My boy tells me he can do it, no problem, and I believed him, figuring Stuart just got lucky. Anyway, a rent-a-cop at the ATM got involved and nailed him before he could get the woman. Dropped him on the spot.”

  “Dead solves a lot of problems,” she said.

  “Yeah. But Marsten wants results. I guess I got to tell him. He’s gonna cut and run, and we’re out of it. Shit! That contract was worth at least twenty-five grand, and it’s all down the fuckin’ tubes.”

  “Maybe not,” Sophia said. She thought for a few moments. The money was too good to walk away. “Tell Marsten what went down with Stuart, but don’t tell him about the woman or your idiot getting snuffed by a cop.”

  “Yeah, but Stuart’s still out there.”

  “Tell Marsten you’ll solve the problem, no extra cost.”

  “Sure. How?”

  An idea started to take shape. “We’ve got some options. Only this time you do it. No screw-ups. Don’t tell Marsten how, just that you’ll get the job done. The only reason you didn’t try Plan B first was because of the time element. You thought he wanted results fast, and you went for the quickest option. Plan B will take more time.”

  “And if he doesn’t buy it?”

  Sophia’s face turned into a mask. “He’ll buy it.”

  Later that same day the jogger timed his arrival so that he drove up just as Marsten left the veterinarian’s office. Duke hobbled painfully behind his master, trying to make a good show of it. The jogger parked next to Marsten’s Jaguar sedan and got out. “How is he?” the jogger asked, stroking Duke’s head.

  “Not too good,” Marsten answered. “Arthritis of the hip.” They stood beside Marsten’s car and talked, for all the world two dog owners discussing their common problems. The jogger outlined the situation with Stuart exactly as Sophia had suggested, while Marsten listened, not saying a word. Finally Marsten opened the rear car door for Duke. The two men gently helped the dog climb inside. Marsten walked around to the driver’s side. “Don’t cock it up this time.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the jogger said. He watched Marsten drive away. “So what the fuck do we do now?” he grumbled to himself.

  At first it was little more than a rumor, something to gossip about on a Monday morning. Slowly fact changed the buzz to truth, and the offices of RayTex Oil vibrated with the news: Time magazine was considering Lee Justine Ellis as their Person of the Year. A surge of telephone calls, faxes, and e-mails erupted from the top floors of the Fountain Plaza Building, and within minutes the entire company knew about it.

  The wiser pundits who specialized in such things, attributed the honor to the Life Flight when L.J. had saved the boy’s life. Of course, Tim Roxford’s role in the amazing landing under zero-zero conditions was almost totally forgotten. As far as Marsten’s secretary, Mrs. Shugy Jenkins, was concerned, it was a gross perversion of all that was decent and pure. But as usual, she said nothing and hid her true feelings. So when the phone call from the White House came, she directed it to her immediate superior, Lloyd Marsten. And also as usual, he never missed a beat when the president’s secretary came on the line.

  “Sorry for the delay,” Marsten said. He timed his words to perfection as L.J. picked up the phone. “Here she is. She was in the day care center.” Certain that that tidbit of information would be relayed to Madeline O’Keith Turner, the forty-fourth president of the United States, he got off the line. Even he couldn’t eavesdrop on that conversation. But he could watch L.J.’s face.

  “Madam President,” L.J. said. She listened for a moment. “I was the copilot. The real hero was Tim Roxford, the pilot.” Silence as she listened. “Well, thank you, I’d be honored.” Again she paused. “Yes, of course. We’ll be there. Thank you, Madam President.” She dropped the phone into its cradle.

  She turned to Marsten. “I’ve been invited to the White House for a special presentation next month. A bit unusual, don’t you think?”

  “Not really,” Marsten said. “Politicians love to have their picture taken with celebrities and you’re quite famous now. Besides, you’re a very visible, not to mention successful, businesswoman. Turner’s facing a tough election in two years, and she needs you to help capture the female vote.”

  “You make it all sound so cynical.”

  “Politics is the very embodiment of self-interest. Maddy Turner—or any politician, for that matter—will sacrifice you in a moment if that’s what it takes to get them reelected. Never forget that.”

  “So you think I should go and get my stomach patted?”

  “Enjoy the moment. But it’s also a golden opportunity for the slow roll and to sidetrack some of the environmental legislation Turner’s pushing. We do need to buy time.”

  “There may be a way,” L.J. replied. “Let me work on it.” They discussed a few other minor matters before she returned to her office. There she sank into the corner of her favorite couch and gazed out the window. From the soft look on her face, a casual observer might think she was daydreaming. But the observer would have been totally wrong. She reached for the phone and buzzed her secretary. “I need a detailed file on President Turner.”

  The Pentagon

  Colonel Priestly’s staff filed out of his office, happy to escape the Friday-morning meeting without being loaded down with crash projects designed to make Priestly look good and ruin their weekend. Only Stuart was shaking his head. “Hey, Mike,” a fellow lieutenant colonel asked, “how many projects did Ramjet lay on you?”

  “Three,” Stuart answered. “All due Monday.”

  “There goes the weekend,” the lieutenant colonel consoled. “Better you than me. What did you do to piss him off?”

  “Beats me,” Stuart said, really knowing the answer.

  He trudged down the hall to his office. The voice-mail light on his telephone was flashing at him. The young police detective from Homicide wanted to talk. Stuart closed his eyes and breathed deeply. It had been seventeen days since he’d been mugged and possibly exposed to HIV. His mouth compressed into a tight line. It was time to learn the bad news. He dialed the detective’s number. It was answered on the first ring. What the hell? he thought. Bad news always travels fast.

  “Mike Stuart returning your call,” he said.

  “Mike, good news. The asshole tested negative for HIV. I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible.”

  For a moment Stuart was speechless as his spirits soared, the heavy burden finally lifted. “Son of a bitch,” he finally managed.

  The detective laughed. “That he was. Have a nice weekend.”

  “Indeed I will” was all Stuart could think of saying. Then, “Thanks.” He broke the connection and looked at his notes from the staff meeting. The three research projects Priestly had laid on him had nothing to do with his normal duties. The pettiness and unconscionable harassment ate at him. He would be the only person working in the office over the weekend. The anger he felt was so real that he could taste it. “Fuck you, Ramjet,” he said out loud. He grabbed his hat and walked briskly down the hall. But to make his point he deliberately stopped at Peggy’s desk to sign out. She gave him a quizzical look. “If Colonel Priestly should ask,” he said, “tell him I’ve got an appointment I couldn’t put off
any longer.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Very serious,” Stuart replied. Then it all broke through, and he smiled. “Have a nice weekend.” With that he was gone.

  Peggy watched him leave. “Whatever got into you?”

  Jane dragged her tired body back to Temptress, anxious for a hot shower and a chance to collapse. She was dog-tired after installing a new diesel engine. Still, she felt good at what she had accomplished and the marina’s manager was ecstatic at the business she was generating by word of mouth. She stiffened when she saw the unlocked hatch to the companionway. The word “robbery” flashed in her mind. She relaxed when she saw the open padlock. Only she and Stuart had keys. “Mike?” she called.

  “I’m in the galley,” he answered.

  She clambered down the steps and was ambushed by the smell of baking cornbread and simmering chili, her favorite meal. But she’d never told him. “How did you know?”

  “I have my sources,” he said, handing her a bottle of Dos Equis, the amber-colored Mexican beer she loved.

  She collapsed on the settee and took a long pull at the beer. “You certainly know the way to a girl’s heart.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  The look on his face and the tone of his voice told her all she needed to know. “You’re playing hooky, right?” she asked. A nod confirmed her guess. “And you’re supposed to be working this weekend?” Another nod. “And you’ve got good news.” The last was a statement, not a question. He grinned at her like the Cheshire cat and didn’t answer, wanting to savor the moment. She shook her head in mock disgust. “Be that way.” She finished her beer and stood up. “I’m the pits. I need to take a shower.”

  “That’s what you get for working for a living. Go ahead. I’ll get dinner ready.” She squeezed by him, and he concentrated on cooking to give her some privacy. It had never been a problem when they were sailing in the Caribbean, because one of them had always been on deck.

  “Mike,” she called, “there’s no soap. Check the middle drawer next to the sink.” He did and found a fresh bar. He knocked on the door, and a hand and bare arm appeared around the edge. He could also see a bare hip and leg that went with it. He blushed and went back to the stove. When she emerged, dinner was ready. While they ate, they talked about the weather and how it was unusually mild for the first of November. When they finished, he washed the dishes. “Well, are you going to tell me now?”